Chapter Text
At hour thirty, the human body ceases to function as a biological organism should and instead becomes a cold machine of perpetual motion, propelling its owner through the obstacles of life as a mere vessel held together by sheer will and muscle memory.
For the last two days, the Nod-Krai Veterinary Clinic has operated as a triage warzone. A large-scale animal control intervention on a hoarding situation had dumped four dozen severely neglected cats into their laps at midnight on Wednesday, and by the time dawn broke on Friday morning, Ifa and his staff are left barely standing, the only thing still propelling them forward being the unshakeable duty to all living beings that they swore to uphold as professionals. (And caffeine. A lot of caffeine.)
Illuga stands in the prep room, bracing his weight against the edge of the examination table as another wave of nausea washes over him. His scrubs are hopelessly ruined, a canvas of dried excrement and fabric tears littered all across the garment, and his hands, scratched up and bloodied from the claws of terrified cats, cannot seem to still their tremors. Tucked safely in the warm alcove of his breast pocket, Aedon trills sleepily, shifting his tiny weight against Illuga’s ribs where his heart hasn’t stopped racing for two days straight.
“I am legally required to send you home now,” Ifa’s voice comes from the doorway, entirely lacking its usual easygoing cadence. The Chief Veterinary Officer looks even more wrecked than Illuga does, his arms littered with the same wounds as the rest of the other staff members. Cacucu is sleeping soundly on his shoulder, pink head feathers tucked securely under his wing. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I passed the legal threshold some hours ago. Go home before you collapse on my floor and I have to explain to the Fire Chief why his son is comatose in my sterile field.”
“Just need to– finish the post-op logs for the two queens in Ward B,” Illuga rasps. His throat feels like it’s lined with sandpaper. “And the calico needs her vitals checked again. The one who had the anesthesia reaction.”
“I’ll check the calico,” Kinich says flatly.
He’s sitting on a stool beside the sink, methodically peeling the wrapper off of a Band-Aid to slap it over a fresh, angry scratch on his cheekbone. Even his movements seem more sluggish than usual, like he’s wading through quicksand. Ajaw, still wrapped around his neck, attempts to bite the edge of the plaster hanging off his face, smacking his jaw grumpily when he fails to grab anything.
“I can do it,” Illuga insists, brows knitted as his fingers continue to fly across the keyboard with near inhuman speed despite their shaking.
“You’re going to accidentally inject yourself with saline if you try to hold a syringe right now.” Kinich doesn’t even look at Illuga, tossing the wrapper into the bin while Ajaw snaps at the empty air. “Go home.”
“I’m fine, I just need more coffee–”
Illuga’s words die in his parched throat before he can finish his sentence.
A familiar silence has enveloped the clinic like a thick fog, erasing the heavy, frantic ambience of the clinic. Even the cacophony of yowling cats in the wards suddenly feel miles away, drowned out by an inexplicable quiet that most definitely does not belong.
Illuga stops typing. For a second, his vision blurs, enough so that he could almost convince himself that the doorway back out towards the lobby had simply vanished from existence, and that there was nothing out there waiting for him, most certainly not an eldritch being and his perfectly healthy dog.
“No,” Ifa mutters from across the room, rubbing his temples slowly. “Absolutely not. Tell me the Grim Reaper didn’t just walk into my lobby during a hoarding intake.”
In response to that, Illuga just exhales a breath that shudders slowly in his chest. He forces his leaden legs to move, dragging himself out of the back room and stepping out into the main lobby.
Standing squarely in the center of the room with his massive overcoat, a stark, pristine outlier amidst the chaos of filth and dried cat pee, is the stranger. The Pomeranian sits cradled in his massive gloved hands, looking around the clinic with its bright, curious eyes.
Illuga just stares. It is the third time this week now.
“Doctor,” Gloomy Lighthouse Guy speaks, stepping forward. “Please, I beg of you. A crisis of the soul has befallen him once more.”
He doesn’t even have the energy to sigh anymore, just turns around to head behind the triage bay. “Scale.”
The man follows, looming over Illuga like a thundercloud as he reverently places the fluffy dog down onto the metal scale, the puppy immediately sitting down with a tiny yip.
“What’s the crisis?” Illuga asks, voice completely hollow. He doesn’t even bother with gloves, just presses the stethoscope directly to the puppy’s chest. The heart rate that comes back is strong and steady, but the stranger still looks troubled, the circles under his eyes almost a perfect copy of Illuga’s own.
“He approached his water dish this morning,” the man begins, tone laced with profound sorrow. “And then just… stopped. He did not drink, but simply stared down into the surface of the water, gazing at his own reflection for fifteen agonising minutes. I called to him, but he did not stir, remaining locked in a standoff with his own visage.”
Illuga checks the puppy’s gums. Perfectly pink.
“I fear,” says Lighthouse Guy, placing a gloved hand over his heart, “that he is suffering a crisis of identity. Perhaps the weight of his own existence has become too heavy for his tiny spirit to bear.”
Slowly, Illuga rises to meet the stranger’s gaze. The room is spinning. He stares at the blissfully ignorant and perfectly healthy puppy, and drags his gaze up at the other man.
“Your dog,” Illuga whispers, voice trembling on the edge of delirium, “was looking at himself in the bowl. Because he is a dog. And water is shiny.”
Gloomy Lighthouse Guy blinks. The deep furrow between his eyebrows shifts into a look of hesitation, and for the first time since Illuga has met him, the theatrical formality that he carries himself with seems to melt away. Yellow eyes sweep over the young vet tech’s form like the guiding beam of a lighthouse; taking in the stains on his scrubs, the sheen of sweat on his pallid face, and the fine tremor shaking his hands.
“Are you quite alright, doctor?” the man asks. His voice is soft, as if he were coaxing a scared animal towards himself. “You appear… rather undone. Has something happened?”
The gentleness of his tone, entirely devoid of the usual dramatic flair, feels like a sledgehammer that cracks open the fragile dam of what remains of Illuga’s composure.
Thirty hours of suppressed rage and adrenaline, and lingering, deep-seated pain shatter in an instant.
“Am I alright?” Illuga chokes out, a hollow laugh escaping his raw throat. He braces himself with both hands flat against the cold table to keep himself upright. “No. No, I am not alright. I have been here for two days straight, and do you want to know why? Because somebody thought it was a great idea to keep forty-seven cats in a singular two bedroom apartment! Forty fucking seven!”
To his credit, Gloomy Lighthouse Guy remains perfectly still, watching Illuga’s anger tear itself out of his chest.
“They were– living in their own filth. Matted to the bone. More than half of them have respiratory infections, and the other half are so terrified of humans they shred our arms into ribbons every time we try to give them even a wipe down.” His voice rises, cracking with raw emotion. The sterile walls of the clinic seem to close in around them, a phantom heat beginning to prickle at the back of his neck. The suffocating memory of smoke, and locked kennels, and helpless beings trapped with nowhere to run.
“It’s always the same,” Illuga spits, tears of pure exhaustion stinging in the corners of his eyes. “People treat pets like they’re disposable, like they’re just… objects you can collect and lock in a cage until you get tired of them! They are living, breathing creatures! They feel fear and pain! And they can’t do a damn thing to save themselves, so then they just sit there and suffer, while people who don’t deserve them let them fucking– rot!”
After those final words leave his lips, Illuga drops his head, his shoulders shaking as he buries his face in trembling hands.
“I can’t save all of them,” whispers Illuga, voice breaking into a ragged, desperate sob under the overwhelming weight of the events that had transgressed. “I try. I– try so hard, but I can’t unlock all the cages. There’s always too many.”
The clinic is dead silent. Even Aedon, peeking out from his shirt pocket, has gone completely still. Yet, the stranger remains, listening to every word with intention. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes, or tell Illuga that it’s going to be okay, he did his best, there’s nothing more he can do.
A small, warm weight suddenly presses against Illuga’s stomach.
Illuga lowers his hands, blinking through exhausted tears. The light grey Pomeranian has hopped off the scale and directly onto his lap, turning around twice before curling into a ball and resting its little white chin on Illuga’s knee with a soft sigh. His owner simply dips his head, seemingly pleased at the pup’s actions.
He stares down at the dog in silence. Slowly, a trembling hand rests on the bundle of fur, carding through tufts of grey rhythmically to the rise and fall of the young master’s breaths. It acts as an anchor, dragging Illuga back from the edge of his panic and recalibrating his emotions.
The emotional purge has taken whatever microscopic shred of energy was still left in his body, and his bones feel like lead, the edges of his vision starting to go black. It only takes a few seconds before the weight starts to drag him down, and he slumps forward, fingers twitching where they lay nestled in soft fur.
“Sir, I… didn’t…” Illuga mumbles, eyelids already closing as his body forcefully hits the emergency shut-off switch. “I didn’t– get your name…”
Just as his elbows buckle, a sudden wave of quiet, comforting warmth wraps around him, gently laying his head to rest atop the cool stainless steel of the triage counter, and the faint scent of cedar and old rain cuts through the sterile bleach for just a moment like a reprieve from all the things that took place on this very table just hours earlier.
Illuga passes out cold.
Hours later, he wakes to the same smell of nature surrounding him like a soft duvet.
It is a deep, rich scent, completely overpowering the usual clinic smell of disinfectant and wet fur, and sitting up slowly, Illuga blinks his eyes open. The harsh fluorescent lights of the exam room are gone, replaced by a dim, warm glow from the small lamp in the corner. He is lying down on the notoriously lumpy couch of the clinic’s break room, and his shoes have been taken off. Behind him, Aedon is perched safely on the backrest of the sofa, dozing peacefully alongside his master.
But what pins Illuga to the cushions below him is the sheer weight draped over his body.
He is buried under a massive wool overcoat, the material thick and impeccably tailored and radiating a lingering, protective warmth. Slowly, Illuga pulls the lapel up to his chin, his exhausted brain taking several moments to process where he is, what time it was, and most importantly, whose coat he is wearing.
Footsteps echo in the corridor.
Kinich strolls past the open doorway of the break room, holding a clipboard and looking much better than the last time Illuga saw him, and pauses in the doorway. He slowly backs up, looking at the man lying on the couch. Then, green eyes track down to the huge, expensive and unmistakably not Illuga’s overcoat swallowing his frame.
He stares at the coat. At Illuga. Letting the heavy implication hang in the air for five full seconds.
Without saying a single word, the other technician turns and walks away down the hall.
Two days after the crash, following a much-needed weekend off for the staff on call during the incident, the clinic tiles have finally stopped smelling of panic, though the lingering heavy silences of the neglect and abuse still clings to the back corners of the wards.
Illuga stands behind the reception desk in his faded scrubs and loose trainers, filing away the last of the operation reports from last week. His hands are still slightly raw from too much exposure to soap and antiseptic, but his pulse has finally slowed back down to a manageable rhythm, no longer jumpstarted by every pained mewl or sharp hiss coming his way. Atop the counter just beside the terminal, the stranger’s heavy dark overcoat sits nearly folded, freshly pressed and still smelling faintly of smoky wood.
The front doors swing open once more.
A crisp draft of cold air sweeps through the lobby, and the waiting room instantly fades to mute. The two Yorkshire Terriers near the door drop their snouts to the tiles, and a resting tabby over in the cat room flattens its ears in wary submission.
Illuga doesn’t need to look up to know who it is, but he does anyway.
The tall stranger steps through the threshold without his dark wool cloak, instead donning a fitted knit sweater that stretches luxuriously over his broad shoulders. Striking yellow eyes, bright and piercing as a beacon light, lock directly onto Illuga the second he crosses the floor. Today, the Pomeranian is not in his arms, but padding confidently across the room on his own, held by an expensive-looking leather leash dotted with sapphires. That thing probably costs at least a week of his salary. Yeesh.
“I have returned,” the man announces in his rich baritone, stopping at the counter and bowing briefly. “Primarily to relieve you of the burden of my garment. Though… I deemed it prudent to request a brief evaluation of the Young Master. Just in case.”
Illuga lets out a low exhale, but there’s no bite in it today. “Over here.”
Making his way around to the exam table, he picks up the puppy and lowers it onto the metal plate with care. The dog wags its fluffy tail, sniffing eagerly at Illuga’s trained hands as he moves through a routine check; feeling around the ears, tapping the abdomen, listening to the steady rhythm of its heartbeat. “He’s completely fine. Heart rate is normal, temperature is good. He’s gained three ounces.”
Lighthouse Guy nods slowly, though his sharp ochre eyes aren’t looking at the dog. Instead, he studies Illuga’s face, taking in the lighter shadows under his eyes and his steadier hands.
“The felines,” says the man quietly, voice free of its usual grand cadence. “From the prior evening. Did they endure?”
Illuga freezes for a fraction of a second, stethoscope still resting against the pup’s ribs. Looking up, he meets the man’s steady gaze, his own settling into a resolute, quiet certainty.
“Forty-one made it,” Illuga says softly, reaching around to disentangle the tubing of the stethoscope from the puppy’s limbs. “Lauma’s sanctuary took twelve of the worst cases for long-term rehab this morning. Ifa cleared the rest for adoption placement.” He pauses then, his throat tightening. “Six… didn’t. Their conditions were too severe before they ever reached us.”
The weight of those six losses hangs heavy between them, quiet and solemn.
Once again, no hollow condolences are offered. He’s not in the field of human medicine, but Illuga thinks he might have to break the Hippocratic oath anyway if he has to hear any more shallow comfort from the people around him, as well-meaning as they are. They could, and would never fully grasp the heaviness of every single life that slips through his fingers.
Instead, the man simply nods once; a deep, respectful acknowledgement of the effort and grief that Illuga carries upon his shoulders. Then, with a fluid, measured movement, he takes a paper cup out of the small plastic bag around his wrist and slides it across the laminate counter towards the vet tech.
A rich, dark aroma of roasted cocoa and freshly brewed espresso instantly floods his senses. Illuga recognises it as being from the high end hipster cafe down the harbour; the one he made the mistake of stopping by once for lunch and leaving later with his wallet a couple thousand Mora lighter. He blinks, staring at the steaming cup. “What…?”
“You appeared… in dire need of this during our last encounter,” the stranger replies evenly, his expression unreadable. “Consider it but a little extra compensation for your patience.”
Iluga hesitates slightly, calloused fingers brushing across the warm cardboard before wrapping around the sleeve. The heat sinks pleasantly into his sore palms, and he takes a slow sip–it’s rich, sharp and perfectly balanced. A small noise of contentment disappears past the plastic lid of the cup, and Illuga looks up abruptly, caught off-guard with a faint flush rising along his neck.
“Th–Thank you,” Illuga mutters, clearing his throat in an attempt to cover his sudden embarrassment. He quickly shifts his focus back to the puppy, who is currently attempting to chew off the corner of the intake clipboard. “Oh, sir, by the way, if I’m logging this checkup properly, I need a real name for your dog. What is he actually called?”
“Certainly. The Young Master’s given name is Ilya,” the man answers smoothly, and Illuga looks up reflexively in a moment of surprise, because the way he’d pronounced it had sounded suspiciously similar to his own name.
“...Ilya? Then why do you keep calling him the ‘Young Master’?”
The stranger gives a subtle, almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, the light of his eyes glinting with amusement. “He possesses so naturally the postured air and unmerited entitlement befitting of a pampered aristocratic heir, so I deemed the moniker entirely appropriate.”
A genuine snort of laughter escapes Illuga’s lips before he can stop it, startling both himself and Aedon. The puppy lets out an approving bark, thumping its tiny little tail against the scale happily.
Before he can say anything else in response, the clinic’s heavy front doors slam open once again.
“Alright, clearing the lane!” A loud, feisty voice barks out from the hallway.
Strutting into the lobby in his usual poised, commandeering manner is Lohen the Deputy Chief of the Mondstadt Police Department, holding the leads for three massive German Shepherds from the K9 unit. The working dogs enter uniformly in disciplined heel positions, heavy paws clicking sharply against the floor tiles as they follow their master diligently.
Sensing the sudden influx of both people and animals alike, the stranger smoothly gathers his folded coat over his arm, scooping Ilya up off the table with his free hand.
“Until next time, doctor,” the man murmurs softly, stepping backward into the clamour of the lobby before Illuga even realises he’s moving.
“Wait–” he starts, taking a half-step past the counter, but the doors of the clinic swing shut with a gentle whoosh, his silhouette vanishing just as quickly as it appeared every time.
“Every single time…” mutters Illuga under his breath, staring blankly at the empty space where only seconds ago had been the prime subject of the clinic’s current interest.
“So, who’s the towering runway model with the pocket fluff?”
Lohen leans both forearms casually over the reception counter, his tactical vest creaking against the lacquered wood. Behind him, the K9s immediately drop into the down-stay position, dark eyes alert but calm. In contrast, Lohen’s sharp gaze flickers from the lingering draft at the entrance down to the steaming paper cup that Illuga is too slow to slide behind the cash register.
“Nobody,” Illuga says quickly, pulling a stack of intake forms towards himself with a little more force than necessary. “Just a client.”
“Right. A client.” Lohen rests his chin in his palm, a mischievous grin tugging at the curves of his lips. “Because clients normally walk around looking like they stepped out of a Victorian painting, leave heavy coats over your break room couch, and buy you ten-thousand-Mora cold brews from down the harbour.”
Illuga’s cheeks flush a dark, furious red. “He came to collect the coat. I was… shivering from exhaustion, and he left it as a professional courtesy. And the coffee was compensation for a long intake.” He’s going to have a long conversation with Kinich after his shift.
“Birdie, the front desk staff have a running betting pool on whether he’s a vampire who wants to kill you or just trying to get your number in a really convoluted way,” Lohen snorts, tapping a gloved nail against the laminate. “He brings that ball of lint in three times a week, for what, again? A water bowl identity crisis?”
“It is a legitimate behavioral concern from a first-time pet owner,” Illuga insists stiffly, though his thumb doesn’t seem to stop nervously rubbing over the rim of the paper cup. “And his name is Ilya.”
“The guy or the dog?”
“...The dog.”
“And the guy’s name?”
Illuga remains quiet. He stares down at the crisp intake sheet, where the Owner Name line still sits mockingly blank.
Lohen cackles, leaning in a fraction closer. “Pfft, and you don’t even know his name? Illuga, you let a complete stranger drape his expensive-ass coat over you while you sleep, and you haven’t even asked his name? Ahaha, didn’t take you for the one night stand type!”
“I’ve been busy!” Illuga retorts, shoulders tensing under his rumpled scrubs. “We had almost fifty cats, Lohen. I haven’t exactly had time to cross-examine every person who walks through those doors. And for the record, I did ask. Multiple times, in fact.”
The other’s teasing grin softens slightly, replaced by a sharper look of concentration as he glances back behind his shoulder. Fingers drum erratically on his holster belt, minty brows furrowing into a thoughtful line. “Seriously, though… I swear that guy looks familiar.”
Illuga’s head snaps up. “In, like, a law enforcement context? Has he done something?”
“No, nothing like that,” Lohen raises his hands to pacify him before folding them and tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling, as if pulling memories from a mental archive. “Not a mugshot. More like… a file. Port authority records, maybe? Or old municipal land deeds. The precinct has those dusty ass archives in black and white from the harbour expansion decades ago.”
Listening to Lohen makes a strange prickle run down Illuga’s spine. “He doesn’t look that old.”
“I’m not saying he’s a ghost, birdie,” the cop laughs, the dogs behind him pricking up their ears at the sound. “Maybe he just comes from old money or land, y’know. He’s got one of those faces. The kind you see in an old-timey photograph standing on the deck of a cutter, looking like he owns the whole coastline.”
Illuga thinks back to the exquisitely crafted lines of his cheekbones that run down to his jaw, the strong yet graceful arch of indigo eyebrows, and those watchful saffron eyes framed by sallow rings unbefitting of a man who definitely has the money to see a dermatologist for them.
Yep. Definitely can see that. Aaaaand now we’re thinking about his face a little too much. Shoo shoo, weird intrusive thoughts.
Lohen picks up his leads, giving Illuga a knowing smirk over his shoulder as he heads towards Exam Room 2, where the other techs are waiting to start their routine inspections of the K9 unit. “Just saying, as an officer, if you’re going to let a tall, mysterious shadow buy you expensive coffee, at least make him show you a driver’s license first.”
Illuga watches Lohen disappear around the corner with one last chuckle, his own grumbles soon dissipating into the ambience of the clinic. Peace and quiet reclaims the reception bay, save for the faint hum of the monitor and the gentle rustling of Aedon shifting on his shoulder.
He looks back down at the clipboard.
Owner Name: __________
Illuga picks up his pen, clicking it once, twice, three times against his knuckles. The mystery is no longer just a mild nuisance on some administrative form anymore; it’s now a persistent, lingering itch under his skin, always just out of reach. Lohen is right about one thing–this guy moves like a phantom of the night, appearing when Illuga is at his lowest, then vanishing the moment someone asks too many questions.
Taking a long, hot sip of the espresso and feeling the warmth spread all the way down his chest and throughout the rest of his body, Illuga begins to write, jotting down everything he can remember about Gloomy Lighthouse Guy and his Young Master in the margins of the intake form.
“Next time,” Illuga murmurs to the empty room, jaw setting into a firm, unwavering line. “Next time, you’re not walking out that door until I get a name.”